


A Splash of White

by sirona



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: First Time, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character(s), Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny's not happy about Grace's tennis lessons, so he drags Steve to one of them. Turns out Steve kicks ass, as per usual, but the game brings back memories of why he took it up in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Splash of White

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I watch the Australian Open final while thinking about Steve in tennis whites, and when I can't write simple PWPs to save my life. Our sense of smell is the most evocative of all five -- it has the power to transport us to another time and place, when we'd last smelled a certain thing. I've wanted to explore that for some time now -- somehow it snuck its way here in the context of Mrs McGarrett, a character we know next to nothing about, but who is, for obvious reasons, extremely important to Steve.
> 
> Disclaimer: Hawaii Five-0 belongs to CBS.

Steve lifts his head off the pillow with an exasperated huff, rubbing at the indentations left on his cheek from pressing his face into it, trying to force himself to drift off; it’s not happening, and he’s giving it up as a bad job. It’s too damn hot-- _no, it isn’t._ Well, too muggy, then-- _that’s not it, either, and you know it._ Steve growls at himself. He feels restless, constricted, like his skin is two sizes too small for his body. He’s put on a pair of sweatpants over his boxer briefs in deference to the fact that Danny stayed over (he can hear the gentle snores coming from the guest room down the corridor); the touch of fabric where he’s used to none is distracting, rubs him up the wrong way, catches on the sheets, and all in all pisses him off no end.

He throws the top sheet off disgustedly and pushes himself upright. His head feels woozy from the two beers he put away earlier, and his muscles feel pleasantly sore from the impromptu game that afternoon. It had been so very long since he’d last played that today had felt surreal, like some sort of trip back in time to where his mom was still alive and laughing at him happily from the other side of the net, little Mary puttering behind the court barriers, playing with her friend Cassie while Cassie’s mom went to fetch them all a cool drink. Steve hadn’t been able to fight it; he’d felt so young all over again, standing on the court in his tennis whites, too-long limbs preparing to take the strain of pushing himself forward, harder, _there_.

There’s a leftover burn of satisfaction in his chest when he thinks about today, from when he’d handed Step-Stan’s ass to him, tennis pro or no. Snatches of earlier flit through his mind as he heads for the stairs, and make him smile -- Grace’s laughter, Danny’s cheers, Rachel’s faintly amused smirk that she’d tried to hide, the sun glinting off the pristine white of their shirts, the smell of the baked court surface at just-past-noon, all of it tempered by the far-off smell of the ocean.

He slips past the spare bedroom’s cracked-open door, careful not to stomp down the steps and wake Danny. He makes his way to the kitchen, puts the electric kettle on and takes out a mug, dropping a bag of Earl Grey inside and walking over to the back door while he waits for the water to boil. He unlatches the screen and pushes it open, letting the balmy breeze inside to slide over the bare skin of his chest and shoulders. He inhales deeply, smelling the jasmine that still winds over the trellis of the porch; the scent never fails to punch him in the gut, forever entwined as it is with the vivid memory of his mom sitting out here long past midnight, sipping at whatever she fancied at the time -- tea, wine, sometimes a glass of cognac, spicy and warm on a February night. He closes his eyes and just breathes for a long moment.

The kettle clicks off; he ambles inside to pour the water into the mug and lets it steep, just like she’d taught him when he’d been seven and wanted to make her a cup of tea for breakfast on Mother’s Day. He remembers staring at the kettle, which back then had been a huge-ass, ugly-as-sin white plastic monstrosity, and wanting to cry because he wanted to surprise Mom but couldn’t figure out how it worked. The scent of bergamot rising with the steam is deliciously soothing and richly evocative; it feels like her hand on the top of his head, pressing him into her rounded tummy-full of baby sister, stroking his hair lovingly off his forehead and tucking stray strands behind his ears, murmuring absentmindedly that he needs a haircut.

He wants to curse Danny for dragging him along to Gracie’s tennis lesson today and unleashing the flood of emotions and memories that he doesn’t quite know how to handle or control. He supposes there really had been a reason, unconscious or not, that he’d been reluctant to pick up a tennis racquet since that last time -- about a week before the bleak-eyed policeman at the door had shattered his world.

He takes the teabag out of the mug on autopilot, squeezes the last droplets out of it and flicks it into the bin, spoons two sugars inside and fetches the milk from the fridge, tipping a splash inside the mug until the colour lightens just so. The ritual is so ingrained that he’s standing out the back door again before he’d even noticed he’d moved. He sips at his tea, leaning his shoulder on the door frame, taking in the splashes of moonlight that spread over the garden, over his own little patch of beach and ocean, and listens to the faint nocturnal sounds that lull him to sleep every night.

\---

When he next checks the time, he’s appalled at himself -- he’s completely lost track of how many hours he’s spent poring over the computer screen, and there’s less than three hours to his usual wake-up time. At this point, going to bed is redundant -- he knows he won’t be able to sleep, anyway. He rubs at his eyes tiredly; they feel gritty with sleeplessness and the effort of holding the past at bay. He picks up his mug, tea long gone, and drops it off at the kitchen counter -- no reason to dirty up another in the morning. The stairs try to creak under his feet, but he’s lived in this house all his life bar a decade or so, and it’s easy to skip the dodgy step and tread softly up the rest. His eyes try to close, but his mind won’t stop churning, so he’s heading straight for his swimming trunks and on his way back out when he hears it.

He’d almost forgotten about Danny sleeping peacefully on the spare bed, naked to the waist, the top sheet lying in a forgotten fold over his middle. Steve peeks through the door -- Danny grunts his name again, thrashing about and tangling himself further in the bedsheets. Steve hesitates for only a second before pushing the door open properly and padding into the room, making a beeline for the bed. He reaches for Danny’s bare shoulder, touches it gently. It’s hot under his fingers, almost feverish; a thin sheen of sweat covers Danny from top to toe, and a niggling worry starts making itself known in Steve’s mind. He narrows his eyes and runs a mental check -- was there a thermometer gathering dust somewhere in the house? He can’t remember; it hasn’t been needed for years, even before McGarrett Sr had shipped him and Mary off to the mainland in a fit of overprotectiveness.

Danny shifts under his hand, trying to push himself off the bed -- Steve’s worry for him peaks past mild into urgent, and he squeezes Danny’s shoulder now, trying to shake him a little, trailing his hand over the heated skin to check the pulse at his throat. He feels like the worst kind of creep when the heat of Danny’s body travels up his arm and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, makes him shudder and sends a spike of lust to lodge itself in his balls. The way Danny shifts under his hand makes his own heart beat faster, and when Danny’s pulse flutters under his fingers the feel of it pushes the breath from his lungs in a rushed exhale.

Danny’s pulse is frantic; it must be upwards of 120. Steve bites his lips and starts to move his hand, thoughts already on the bottle of paracetamol in the medicine chest in the bathroom, when he hears Danny’s voice, hoarse from sleep but no less urgent.

“Steve,” Danny groans even as he tries to lift himself off the mattress again.

“I’m here, Danny,” Steve murmurs, trying for reassuring but ending up somewhere closer to fretting. “Tell me what’s wrong. Danny, what do you need?”

“Yeah,” Danny grunts and pushes against the mattress again, but he’s not getting up; he’s not got the leverage right, he should be pushing with his shoulders, not his hips... Oh. _Oh._

Steve whips his hand away like Danny’s skin is on fire -- which it might as well be, for the wall of heat it broadcasts even to where Steve’s standing, struck dumb with shock and want. Danny’s hips press into the mattress again and his whole back moves with them; drops of sweat wet his forehead, and from what little Steve can see, he’s biting into his lower lip and humming deep in his throat.

Steve feels hot and cold waves chase over his body; he’s desperately hard just from listening to the noises Danny is making, from the knowledge that Danny is calling his name while he’s having _that_ kind of dream. The dawning realisation is so intense that his whole body shudders and he has to bite his own lip not to moan out loud.

It slips out anyway -- _”Danny!”_ \-- Steve closes his eyes in acute embarrassment and vicious need. He opens them again, with every intention of getting the hell out of the room, and then the house -- this is neither the time nor the place for this to happen, not when Danny’s asleep, small and vulnerable and trusting (Steve will never forgive himself if he takes advantage of him now); maybe he can ask Danny to dinner tomorrow, do this thing properly -- his eyes lock to pale-blue ones, wide open.

\---

Danny can barely suck air into his lungs, let alone talk. Steve is standing tall -- well, okay, crouching tall, eyes locked on the prey on the other side of the net. Step-Stan looks nervous, shifting from foot to foot before squaring his shoulders and throwing the ball in the air to serve. Steve’s powerful legs work against the court surface, pushing his body to the right where he meets the serve easily and lobs it back over the net with a perfect forehand. The muscles in his back shift under the thin shirt as he meets the ball again, returning it with barely any effort. It slides down the length of the court to bounce on the line and fly past, an inch beyond Stan’s outstretched racquet.

“Advantage: Steve!” Gracie shrieks on Danny’s right, jumping up and down excitedly. He tries to cheer, but his mouth has dried up completely, just like his thoughts. Steve turns and smiles at them, so happy, so damn pleased with himself that it’s all Danny can do not to speed walk over there and maul him.

 _This is_ Steve, he reminds himself. _Crazy-ass, I-am-a-big-bad-SEAL Steve, aneurysm-face Steve, your partner Steve, whom you cannot ogle like a prime piece of real estate, even if some parts of him match that description real well._ Danny swallows convulsively. Steve is frowning at him, his face the one he makes right before he charges into a situation half-cocked, the little frown between his eyes speaking volumes to those who have learned the words -- and Danny has.

Danny clears his throat and tries for a smile. “Nice one, babe!” he yells with a thumbs-up, trying to keep his eyes off the acres of borrowed white fabric stretched over Steve’s toned chest. That shirt would never fit Stan half as well as it fits Steve, he thinks with a proprietary satisfaction he has no right to feel.

Steve’s frown lifts, but he doesn’t throw himself back into the game. Instead, he tosses his racquet to the side and stalks towards Danny, determined blue eyes boring into his, mouth lifted in a little smirk that slithers down Danny’s spine and makes his cock twitch with need. Steve fills his entire world; there’s just the two of them left, and now Steve is reaching for him and pulling him forward into a messy, dirty kiss that blows his mind and makes him press closer -- until there’s nothing but a couple layers of fabric between them, until Steve’s heat scorches his front, until his shirt and slacks melt off and he stands there naked, rubbing himself desperately against Steve’s hip covered by the still-pristine cotton of the tennis whites. He hears himself moan, tries to say Steve’s name, press it into his mouth, move until his and Steve’s groins fuse and there’s nothing between them but sweat and pre-come.

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder, feels it climbing up his neck to feel his pulse beating frantically against the skin. He hears Steve say his name -- _”Danny!”_ \-- it resonates strangely, as if he’s not painted against Danny’s chest, but is standing apart--

He opens his eyes and looks straight at Steve, standing scant inches away from him in the dark of the bedroom. His eyes are closed and he’s chewing on his lower lip, hands squeezed into fists by his side. He’s standing right next to the window; the moonlight washes over him, throwing half of him in shadow and highlighting the bulge in the front of his sweatpants. Danny licks his lips unconsciously.

Steve opens his eyes and looks down at him. Danny is sort of glad for the moonlight, because he’s quite positive that his whole body is flushing bright pink. The Steve from his dream interposes over the Steve of this afternoon and over the Steve standing by the bed now, looking ready to bolt; it makes him dizzy, but he wants them all, so badly that he chokes on air, biting his tongue on the words fighting to come out of his mouth -- _“Come here. Now. Kiss me. Lie down. Let me take you in my mouth. Please.”_

That seems to shake Steve from whatever trance he’d fallen into. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Danny, I just, you said my name, I was passing by the door and I heard you, and--shit, I’m just going to--um.” He shuffles his feet uncertainly, trying to angle himself away from Danny -- as if Danny can’t see his dick trying to drill straight through his pants, for real. Steve darts an uncertain look at him that seems to linger on his mouth, and Danny snaps.

“McGarrett. Get in this bed right now.” He turns on his side and wiggles over, letting Steve see the state he’s in -- all of it, the messed-up boxer shorts damp with pre-come, the stiff nipples, the rapidly rising and falling chest, the dilated pupils.

Steve’s hips buck forward -- at his tone, at his words, at both -- who cares, as long as he gets his ass in Danny’s bed ASAP. Now that Danny has hard evidence (pun fully intended, thank you so much) that Steve wants him as much as Danny wants Steve, he’s not wasting another moment of it. The longest engagement, indeed; it’s been weeks since he could call their banter anything but the foreplay it was. Danny’s thoroughly sick of the case of blue balls working with this maniac leaves him with on a daily basis.

“Fuck, _Danny_ ,” Steve groans helplessly as he falls onto the mattress and reaches a long arm to tug Danny closer, close enough to lick his way insistently into that big, loud mouth that’s been driving him insane since the first day he’d had it directed at him.

Danny prods at him until he can press their bodies together, until he can push one leg between Steve’s and flex his hips, rubbing his cock into Steve’s hip, dry-humping him for all he’s worth. Steve isn’t far behind, but he seems to have more of his wits about him (a fact which Danny finds frankly offensive, and avidly sets to rectify) and pushes Danny over until he’s on his back, and Steve can slide between his legs to press their cocks together at last. The noise that tears out of Danny’s throat can only be described as a whimper; his hands tug frantically at Steve’s waistband, slipping the sweatpants and underwear off of him and kicking them away impatiently. The process provides some very, very interesting friction that makes Danny pant harshly with every twist of his hips.

Steve stares at Danny’s face as his partner bucks underneath him. It’s almost too much, seeing his face go slack every time Steve rocks forward, when he fists his hands into Danny’s hair and tugs his head to the side, the better to fit their mouths together. The way Danny keens when Steve coaxes his tongue into his mouth and sucks on it; the way his nails dig into Steve’s back when he slides one hand over Danny’s thigh and lifts, opening him up for Steve’s thrusts; the desperate sound he makes when he lets go of Steve and paws at his own underwear, desperate to tear it off, so there’s nothing but the feel of skin sliding on skin between them -- it’s all designed specifically to turn Steve into a blubbering mess of a SEAL, and it’s working all too well.

Steve can hardly believe how hard and fast Danny moves; how thoroughly taken Steve feels when Danny’s fingers squeeze his ass to bruising and yank him forward to mash their cocks together; how Danny groans and tries to lift his hips into the thrusts even as he’s pulling Steve down into him. It’s all Steve can do to hang on, to not come too soon and end this sheer perfection, to nose his way down Danny’s throat and latch his lips to the long, thick muscle on the side of his neck, just above the spot where it joins his shoulder. Danny bucks into him helplessly, the noises coming out of him higher and rougher in pitch, and the way he can’t stop saying Steve’s name -- it’s all just too much, too--

“God, Danny!” He tries to muffle the shout into Danny’s neck as he shoots all over Danny’s cock and balls, rope after rope of come smearing over Danny’s tight skin.

And _oh_ \-- “Ow, sweet Jesus, Danno,” he yelps when Danny bites his shoulder hard, clenches his fingers around the handfuls of ass he’s still gripping and comes, hips stuttering back and forth violently as the moans he doesn’t try to hide vibrate against Steve’s chest.

Steve winces a little, thinking that that’s going to bruise to one hell of a hickey in a few hours, and he’d bet tomorrow’s breakfast on his ass bearing an imprint of Danny’s fingers and nails for the next couple days -- but he can’t make himself care right now, not when he’s still riding high on endorphins and delight and _fuck_ , and _yes_ , and _Danny_.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Danny manages when he winds down a little, kissing at the teethmarks he’s left in Steve’s shoulder and flicking his tongue over them even as he sinks back into the mattress, spent and sated and boneless.

“Yeah,” Steve croaks, voice rough from lack of sleep and the noises Danny had effortlessly drawn from him. He shifts until his groin is no longer mashed in the sticky mess between them, reaches for his pants and wipes them both clean, collapsing to Danny’s right when he’s done. Danny curls on his side and wiggles until his back is flush with Steve’s chest; Steve grins muzzily and throws an arm over his middle, buries his nose in the damp hair at Danny’s nape and just breathes him in.

He’d have been surprised at how easily he drops off to sleep, considering the endless, hopeless hours earlier -- but it comes at him sideways, and he’s far too content to notice when he slides under.

 

END


End file.
